


Fix me

by Chatote



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Fluff, I need you, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 15:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8921953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chatote/pseuds/Chatote
Summary: Sherlock needs his fix but John isn't here.





	

Sherlock was surprised to see that night had already fallen. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa — the case Lestrade had given him had been delightful and had kept him awake for five days in a row. His back ached when he sat in the dark living room. 

One quick look at the clock told him it was way past 8pm. John wouldn’t come tonight. Since they — Mycroft, John and Sherlock — had set up a trap, John had come to 221B every evening. He was telling Mary that Sherlock was worrying him. That he thought Sherlock was going back to drugs. And Mary bought it. She was underestimating them. Worst, she was underestimating  _John Watson_ , the doctor who went to war. Sherlock smirked. She was doomed. 

Still, John wouldn’t come tonight. He hadn’t phone or text but Mycroft hadn’t contact Sherlock neither, which meant John was safe but unable to communicate without making Mary suspicious. 

Despite this perfectly logical — and surely right — deduction, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel… distressed. At first, he thought it was because John could be hurt. Mary could have shot him or— No. Mycroft would know. Mycroft always know. 

What was it then? Why was he feeling sad and… anxious? This feeling was bringing him back at when he was still on drugs, a few years ago. Now, John was his drug, and Sherlock needed a fix. 

This realisation did nothing to appease him. On the contrary, Sherlock was more and more upset by each passing minutes. How was he going to wait until the next day? How could he be  _sure_  that John was alright? Mycroft wasn’t  _always_  right, was he? He hadn’t a control over _everything_. 

Sherlock… Sherlock needed John. And John wasn’t here. The flat was silent and… empty. He couldn’t bare it. Sherlock couldn’t bare it. The missing hiss of the kettle or the lack of ‘clic‘ when John was typing their latest adventures on his laptop. 

Sherlock didn’t think about it twice. He stood up and ran to his room, his blue dressing gown flying around his slim body. The wardrobe. It was in the wardrobe, his new hiding, where no one had found it yet. Sherlock took the small wooden box and threw it on his bed. He opened it harshly and took out the first needle he saw, not caring  _at all_  about what it was. 

The burning in his arm felt like a welcome. Soon, the drug reached his brain and his head started to turn. Sherlock sat, his head between his knees, taking deep, calming breath. He felt instantly better. It wasn’t as good as John but it was better. 

That’s when he heard the flat’s door open. “Sherlock?“

Sherlock rose his head in panic. No. No, John shouldn’t be here… He shouldn’t see Sherlock like that, not when Sherlock’s barriers were weaken by drugs.

“Sherlock?“ John’s voice was worried. Sherlock frowned. Why would John be worried? It was him who was late. Him who could have been shot by his murderous wife. He could hear John’s steps in the corridor. Sherlock’s door opened. 

John’s eyes fell immediately on the small form curled up on the floor, next to the bed. In less than a second, he was at his friend’s side, taking his pulse and trying to guess what he had taken this night. 

“God, Sherlock… I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. Rosie was sick and Mary wasn’t here and my phone was out of… Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?“ John was panicking to, Sherlock realised. It wasn’t good. John shouldn’t panic — especially not because of Sherlock. John should be _happy_. It had a pretty smile, Sherlock remembered. John’s smile was definitely the best. And his lips were gorgeous and attractive and Sherlock wanted to—“Sherlock?“

“Mmm?“ It wasn’t much but, for John, it was the sign that Sherlock could hear and understand him. He slipped his hands under Sherlock arm and lifted him on the bed. It was difficult given that the other man had barely eaten this week.

“Come on, Sherlock. Open your eyes. Do it for me.“ John’s voice wasn’t like it should be. Sherlock didn’t like it. John’s voice was supposed to be nice and hot and warm and all those nice things. He tried to do as he was asked, to appease John. But his eyelids were heavy, too heavy and— was he on the bed? How did he arrived here? And there was someone —  _John_  — who was taking his pulse again. Sherlock tried to open his mouth, to say  _something_ , anything, but he couldn’t. The darkness had arrived and swallowed him like a starving monster. 


End file.
